


How the Years and Our Youth Pass On

by rivlee



Category: Spartacus Series (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Families of Choice, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-07 01:14:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivlee/pseuds/rivlee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Duro never thought to see his homeland again, but he's there now, with a new understanding of family and home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Steorie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steorie/gifts).



> Tilte from The Gaslight Anthem's _Miles Davis and the Cool_.

After having lost a good amount of his blood in the sand of Batiatus’ ludus, Duro never thought to see the trees of his homeland again. It felt a certain death, there in Agron’s arms, choking out that he saved his brother this time, when Donar appeared with a hot sword and a crude, but quick, solution to close Duro’s wound. Duro had spent months healing, even as he helped plan the survival of Spartacus’ rebellion from behind the lines, stuck with the former house-slaves, the children, and the elderly. Duro’s wound healed in a massive knot of scarred tissue that still ached, and he lost the ability to fight for any long period of time, but he remained best suited for breaking tensions and making friends of enemies. 

Now he lived, under the sacred boughs of his home, world-weary, full of scars, and _free_. The sun that warmed his back felt a blessing now, not a punishment, and the air in his lungs was crisp, not tainted with blood, or sea salt, or sand. 

Duro found himself lost to memory as he reflected on the past year of true freedom, able to laugh easier without the threat of constant war over his head, even if grief and mourning took their toll. Still each season saw the cry of a new babe, born in freedom, and even if the names the children bore sounded Roman, or Greek, or even Syrian rather than an elder Chauci chieftain, Duro knew what it was like to be born of an outsider. Laeta looked more of their people than Duro ever would, and this place was home to them all now. 

He leaned against the trunk of the ancient oak that had sheltered him even as a boy and remembered what brought them here.

******************

 

They defeated Crassus that day, under a burning sun in the dry air near the foot of the mountains. Defeating Crassus hadn’t meant much in the end; there was still Caesar and his flank that escaped; still Pompey, and Lucullus, and all the other generals and armies of Rome that swore to see their end. They’d taken Crassus’ life though, a gaggle of rebelling slaves and poor farmers ripping the life from the body of Rome’s richest man. The former gladiators, slaves, and all the ill begotten thought as nothing more than goods to be bought and sold, had taken a city from Rome, had bruised their pride, and had brought down one of their most powerful. 

Duro winced as he rested a hand over the nasty whitened knot of scars just below his chest. It reminded him how very thin the line between life and death, or failure and victory, truly was in the grander scheme. They were not without losses, and massive ones at that. Lugo’s booming voice would only echo now in their memories, Gannicus’ low laugh only to trail after the shades in the Afterlife, Naevia now walking a path where she could find Crixus, and Saxa now had a whole new army of the dead to conquer, reunited with Donar, their brother-in-arms. 

Spartacus was the last to fall. Duro had stood beside Agron as he leaned over their bonded brother, while Nasir and Mira cradled his head, and watched the life drain from Spartacus’ body as his blood turned the sand reddish-brown. It always came back to blood and sand with them, and even the skies wept at the loss of such a man. Duro could not truly mourn much for his passing since it did not make him sad. Spartacus would see his wife again, the best reward for the man who had seen so many to freedom. 

Duro had never truly understood the cost of war as a young man. Back then his head and heart were still too full of stories about glorious death and enduring legacies. He was far older now. He finally understood the heavy costs that came, the burden of memory, and of survival, but he was still _here_ , Agron still at his side, and they were going _home_. 

For all their losses over the years, the rebellion had brought new brothers, sisters, trusted friends, sworn warriors, and their shield mates. They found them through the villas, towns, cities of stone, and crumbling seaports that marked the boundaries of Rome. There was Nasir—Tiberius, first—who showed a cunning mind and the type of fire that only came with the most pure of warriors. He growled, and hissed, and spit like any wild animal woken up from being too-long tamed, yet he could remain kind and caring when others descended into that lost sense that came with blood lust and grief. He was a kind heart wrapped in a fierce body, and loyal to those he loved.

At Sinuessa en Valle they found Sibyl, who still had full faith in the protection of her gods, with the good sense to defend herself and others, or keep quiet when required, during a fight. They met Laeta, who was the best of Spartacus and Mira combined, even if a Roman woman and the wife of a wealthy merchant. If she were a man, she’d had rivaled Rome’s greatest generals. Duro admired the skill it took to have such dedication to strategy and deception, with such a belief in her own morals and goals. Rome made the mistake of discounting women on the battlefield, and it cost them Laeta who was certainly greater than her husband or Glaber could ever be, but Duro knew a warrior even when they came wrapped in tattered silks. It was not simply a sword in hand that made a fighter, and certainly _not_ what made a survivor. 

The city gave them Attius, who laughed like Gannicus, though with less shadows haunting his eyes. He worked metal like a god, providing spear tips and arrow blades at a heavily discounted price for such a valuable skill. They met Castus, who had a smile that promised devious, delightful, and debauched things, with a voice and skilled tongue that boasted evidence of his claims. He infuriated Agron from the start, and Duro liked him on sight. Duro recognized the bond of being pounded into the dirt by men with short tempers. He had held out his hand to Castus once Spartacus ended the fight with Agron, giving apologies for his brother’s absence of diplomatic skills, and offer of another drink to impress upon Castus how foolish it was to pursue Nasir for anything other than brotherhood.

Diona met them in the streets after Spartacus and Heracleo’s first meeting. Naevia had frozen at the sight of her, gasp caught in her throat, and trusty blade slipping from her fingers to fall on the sand-covered stones. Diona, garbed in the dress of the Cilicians, tattoos on her arms and pearls in her hair, had cupped Naevia’s cheeks there in front of them all, pressing a chaste kiss to Naevia’s lips and thanked the gods for returning her sister. It took Duro and Nasir both to hold Agron back from stopping such an embrace, his brother’s blind hatred for Romans transferring easily to the types of pirates who sold men like Duro and boys like Nasir had been. It was good such a moment of peace remained preserved, as it stood as one of the lost hopeful moments until the war’s end. 

Kore was the last of their new family to be found in these new lands. She slipped into their camp under the cover of a winter night with Roman blood staining her hands. She returned to the Romans with red sand crunching under her feet, hands stained anew, with certain death in her future. She’d taken the life of Crassus’ eldest son after all, in front of the eyes of his soldiers and his enemies. She knew her death was an inevitability, and showed a courage Duro had not witnessed in some of the oldest gladiators he trained under. Unlike Batiatus, she did not yell and deny her future end, but took her vengeance with her own hands, able to face death with head held high.

It was Diona who liberated her from Crassus’ tent and brought her back to them. Mira had treated the oozing wounds left by the manacles around her wrists, while Laeta had washed the dried blood from her lips and face, and Duro waited patiently with a bowl full of broth and a wineskin Castus’ had liberated from Gannicus’ stores. Kore remained weak in health, but not in spirit, and while she shivered under Spartacus’ heavy cloak, she spoke of Crassus’ plans. There had been little reason to show discretion around one about to die, she explained, and she told them as much as she could remember before sleep took her. 

Even with Kore’s information the fight was destined to be their final stand, but Mira agreed that their dead would’ve been in greater numbers otherwise. They lost Saxa, Lugo, Gannicus, Attius, and Spartacus. Donar and Crixus were already among the Shades before that battle. Castus was saved with the same cruel healing that had seen Duro, Nasir, and Mira from the clutches of the Afterlife.

They lost Naevia. She went as Crixus had, died almost as Diona had in the arena, and took a handful of Romans with her. Duro had given his apologies to Diona after the battle, when they were pushing through the mountain passes, but she had never fallen to grief.

“I never thought to see her again in this life,” Diona said. “I consider the time we had to be the greatest of gifts. She stands with Crixus now. I know it is where she would want to be, and perhaps she shall watch over us all. She has earned the right to be remembered and revered, not mourned after.”

***************

“Fuck your fucking trees!”

Duro shook himself awake at the sound of Laeta’s yell. It was a common call these days, ever fierce, ever loud, and a source of great amusement for both Agron and Duro. Laeta, while capable of aiding in the delivery of children and running the supply lines for a wayward group of fleeing rebels, remained unable to set a tent without resorting to violence.

“Do you wish to help her, or should I?” Castus called up from the tree roots.

Duro was comfortable, nestled in the strong branches with a wineskin at his side, but he still started his descent to help Laeta. “Do you think yourself capable, Cilician?” he asked.

“I will do it myself,” Laeta interrupted them. 

Castus nodded his understanding before taking the path down to the river’s edge. He spent many hours there, eyes closed towards the sky as he tilted his head to listen to the water’s sound. The children of the village often gathered around him when they’d completed their tasks for the day, eager to hear one of Castus’ many tales of sea serpents and adventures to far-away places. 

Before Duro had even cleared the lowest tree branch, a small group of children were already chasing after Castus. 

“It lifts heart to see such things,” Diona said.

Duro started at her sudden appearance and dug his nails into the bark to keep from failing. She had managed to garb herself in a cloak almost the exact shade of the oak trunk. A small smile twisted her lips as she watched Duro.

“You make a poor sentry.”

“Thank the gods for Nasir then,” he said. He dropped down beside her. “Silence was never my strength.”

“No,” Diona agreed. “You knew freedom from birth. You did not grow up knowing that silence meant survival, and that even then it couldn’t save you.” Her eyes looked through Duro, rather than at him, as she continued. “When you were taken you fought back with your words, and your fists, and your spirit. For you this life now is something you fought to take back. For me, for Nasir, for Kore and Sibyl and the others, it is a life we never would’ve imagined.”

Duro thought of Chadara then, and of freedom being its own sudden burden. 

Diona gestured at Laeta. “There is a woman of Rome, used to respect and adulation for her wealth and position. She had slaves to handle her matters, and you wonder now why she is so determined to accomplish things with her own hands. She hides it well, but there is still a struggle to find her place here. She is no longer the most powerful woman of the company, and Mira and Belesa both have advantage since they speak some of your tongue.”

“Is there a lesson to be found in your words?” Duro asked.

Diona’s shoulders shook with a silent laugh. “ _Show_ her how to fix the tent, rather than insisting on doing it _for_ her.”

*****************

When Nasir joined their village, it required the sudden need for larger stables. Agron swore he wasn’t parting with their few packs of salvaged war goods for Nasir’s sudden collection of horses, promised that the damned creatures followed Nasir home with the hunting parties, but the number of their stock always increased after a visit to the merchants’ gathering. 

“If Donar could only see them now,” Mira said. 

Duro looked up from the sword his was sharpening to follow her gaze. It was another of Nasir’s attempts to increase the dexterity of Agron’s fingers, this time by weaving scraps of cloth into the horse manes. Duro made a valiant effort to keep his laughter quiet, but it echoed loud enough across the settlement to draw Kore from the bowels of the healer’s hut.

Mira beamed at him before she returned to her own work. She had a small knife in one hand and a plain wooden bow across her lap. She’d started carving her own history into her chosen weapon after she recovered from her axe wound. The first bow contained nothing save stark notches in a steady line of her confirmed kills. The next one had a full circle to represent the moon, placed there by Spartacus’ own hands. She’d left that one to hang on the wall of their home, though Duro knew she allowed others to trace the small symbol carved by Spartacus when they needed to remember, or find forgiveness for being alive. Mira now tested a new bow each month, forever seeking the perfect combination of wood and animal gut and arrow shafts to find the best weapon. Each one now started off with the small, circular moon, before other carvings filled in the story of Mira’s life. 

“I need more than just scars to remind me of all we survived,” Mira said. “As the days go, I either feel as if it is been too soon, or far too long, since we lived that war.”

Duro let his eyes linger on the tense set of Agron’s shoulders. “Some of us are still fighting it,” he said. “Some of us always will.”

*******************

“I still dream of those nights without him,” Nasir said. He used a stick to poke at the fire before them, facing the flames rather than Duro’s expression. “I raged and cursed at him while he was beaten and nailed to a cross.”

The snow felt warmer here around them than it ever did in the mountains of Rome. It made sentry duty easier with a brother at his side and a warm bed waiting at home. Still, there were words that felt colder, harsher, more biting, than any that came through the valley they now claimed as their own. 

“Do you know why I let him go?” Duro asked.

Nasir frowned. “I never could figure the answer. You two bled for each other.” He did not say, _You almost died for him_.

“Agron wanted you to have _this_ ,” Duro gestured to the land around them, “and he begged me to stay at your side. He wanted you to have a _home_ and knew this was the best chance. I could not deny my brother his last wish. Even more than that, I could not call Agron out for such stupidity. I dove in front of a sword for him, and would be nothing but bones if not for Donar.”

“I suspected it was a family trait,” Nasir said. He dusted the snow off his hair before pulling the hood of his cloak up. “I never can get him to speak of that time, when you were injured.”

“He became a monster,” Duro admitted. “I do not think he likes to recall it. It is interesting how some things changed once we toppled into your villa.”

Nasir snorted. “Interesting. He asked me my name to mourn my passing.”

Duro grinned and leaned into Nasir’s side, sharing his warmth. “I think you quite like the way your name falls from his lips.”

**************

Kore and Laeta spent hours in each other’s company, and come the winter they shared a home together with Castus. They spoke often to each other in Greek and Latin, sharing tales of their lives and histories and mythologies of their gods. Diona sometimes stayed with them for months before moving on to Sibyl and Belesa, then to Agron and Nasir, before circling back. She never settled in one spot for long, never allowed herself a chance to make a home, and never accepted the hospitality of Duro and Mira for more than a fortnight.

“Stability almost betrayed me to my death,” Diona said one night when Duro asked. Her hair was unbound as she leaned over him, pale skin full of scars sliding against his own. “The only home I ever knew, surrounded by the faces I’d seen since I was a child, used me as nothing but a whore to gain their prominence.” She let a harsh laugh escape her chest. “Even the whores from the Pits saw more respect from the domina I was to view as my mother. I thought, even then, it would be okay in the end if I could save Naevia.” Her fingers tugged on the beads forever woven into her hair, the ones that used to decorate Naevia’s cowl. “That house destroyed us both in the end.”

“You should stay with us for the winter,” Duro insisted. “There’s enough room between mine and Mira’s beds to fit another if you do not wish to share, or think I expect more than you are willing to offer. You should know Mira beyond her place as a general. She can tell you of Naevia before she was banished.”

Diona twisted the strand of beads between her fingers. “Melitta came to a bitter end after surviving that family for her entire life. Naevia took her position and suffered for it as well. What of Mira, then?”

“She should be dead,” Duro said.

“So should you,” Diona said. She pressed a hand over Duro’s knot of scars, and he flinched even though it had been years since they were fresh. “To be fair, so should I. Part of me did die in that ludus, long before the arena. A child’s innocence should not be so torn away.” Diona’s hand pressed harder against Duro’s skin, before she leaned back, settling herself comfortably over his body. “I suppose it is worth a try.”

Duro was shocked she accepted now, when a year ago such an offer was repeatedly declined. “Mira will be glad to have another woman under the roof,” he said.

Diona cocked her head to the side. “What _is_ it between you two?”

“She is our sister, though she would claim she is more like our mother.” Duro felt the bittersweet of old memories tug at him. “It’s is more honest a claim than she knows. Our mother would’ve declared Mira one of her own the second she saw the bow in her hands.”

“Your mother was a warrior?” Diona asked.

“She was an outsider who raised two young boys on her own after a fever took her husband. My mother was strength and kindness and loyalty and determination.”

Diona frowned down at him as she traced the remnants of his smile with her fingers. “My mother was a house-slave fucked by a gladiator. I never knew either of them by name.”

That surprised a laugh out of Duro, causing the same in Diona, and the warmth that settled in his belly at the sound of her honest joy made him hold on to her just that much tighter.

*****************

“Late summer would be lovely for a wedding,” Sibyl said when the first shoots of grass broke through the snow. “It will be a time of celebrating during those warm days.”

“And who do you plan on claiming?” Laeta asked as helped Duro take stock of the sheep. “That makes four and twenty,” she informed him as she made a note on her wax tablet.

“I meant for Duro,” Sibyl said.

Duro choked on his own spit while Laeta made a clucking sound with her tongue. “I think Diona has a prior claim on him, though I’m sure he’s flattered by your interest, Sibyl.”

Duro helplessly nodded in agreement as Sibyl twirled the small carving knife in her hand. 

“I did not mean for _me_ ,” Sibyl said. “I meant for Duro _and_ Diona. I’ve already spoken to her of it, and she agrees that once the flowers bloom it will be time. The babe will surely be born by then.”

“We’ve already held a hand-fasting,” Duro said.

“Which is fine and well for _you_ ,” Sibyl agreed. “Diona was raised with Roman customs though, and Castus said she picked up a few more from the Greeks lingering near Cilicia. We should do something for her Gods.”

Duro scoffed. “Why does it always come back to the gods with you?”

“Be careful Duro, the gods are always listening,” Sibyl said. Thunder clapped overhead at her words, even though the sun still shone. “See?” she asked. 

Duro looked helplessly at Laeta who only shrugged. “It seems the gods favor her declaration.”

 

*************

“Your daughter has lungs that would’ve made Lugo proud,” Agron declared. 

“I can take her back now if you like,” Duro said. He patted the soft brown curls on Teuta’s head. Named after Duro’s mother, he had tried to suggest Naevia, but Diona insisted that her daughter would carry a family name never tainted by the hold of Rome.

Agron cradled her closer to his chest. “She likes it here.”

“Because you give off heat like a fire,” Nasir said. “The child knows where to find warmth.”

Duro slung an arm around Nasir’s shoulders. “And now we all know why you stay with him. It’s just for the body heat.”

“The only way to survive here where winter comes too soon,” Nasir agreed. 

Duro had grown immune to Agron’s glares long ago, but they were rendered even more ineffective with an infant clinging to his chest. Teuta blinked up at him before her shrieking laugh sounded through the hut, causing the chickens outside to squawk and the dogs to bark.

“She only does that around you,” Duro said. “I think you encourage her.”

“Or perhaps she’s just trying to compete against him,” Nasir mused.

Agron frowned. “I am not _that_ loud,” he insisted.

“Of course not,” Nasir said. “You are a master of stealth.”

“Who just happens to kick rocks down onto Roman soldiers when your clinging from a rope hanging over their heads as you loudly declare _fuck_ for all on Vesuvius to hear,” Duro agreed.

Nasir’s smile turned sweet at the look on Agron’s face, and he bowed his head in defeat. “He’ll look like a confused pup soon. I suggest we declare a draw for this battle, before I lose to that face of his.”

Duro sighed. “While I think you’d still be declared victor in the end, I will concede to the draw this time. Besides, Teuta will start a whole other set of cries if she doesn’t see her mother soon.” Duro hoped he wouldn’t have to pry her away from Agron again. The last time had left Nasir in tears, he’d laughed so hard. 

“Agron, give your brother his child,” Nasir said. “I promise to let you cuddle the lambs later, and I won’t tell anyone.”

“Besides me,” Duro said. “I will, of course, tell everyone.”

Agron pressed a kiss to Teuta’s head before carefully handing her over. “The gods laughed themselves to death the day they allowed the two of you to meet.”

“Your punishment for always cursing them,” Nasir said. He ran a gentle finger down Teuta’s cheek as she rested her head on Duro’s shoulder. “Their gifts are great though.”

*******************

The idea of family had changed for Duro, thanks largely to time and circumstance. Where once it only extended to his blood, now it drifted to brothers-and-sisters-by-bond and dear friends who saw a war at his side. He felt more protective of the rebels here east of the Rhine then he ever had for the tribe that claimed him. His family was buried in this land, and at sea, and in the mountains of Rome. His family died in battle against the Gauls and beside them. His family came from all reaches of the world, spoke in tongues as varied as the lips their words fell from, and worshiped wholly different gods. 

His family was here, in this wooden hut, curled up in straw-filled beds as they told stories of those they’d lost. His family was one farm over, in a house filled with Castus’ warm laugh, Kore’s kind words, and Laeta’s reassuring presence. His home was Sibyl’s small carvings of her gods, scattered throughout the village, to offer protection over them always. It was the first tiny bow Mira had carved for Teuta, and the noise Nasir was making about teaching her to ride when she came of age. It was in the people of this village who knew Agron and Duro as boys and remained shocked, and pleased, at the changes rendered by experience. 

“You think too much,” Diona said as she curled into his side.

“I’ve never been accused of such,” he murmured.

“Because you find it easier for the world to think you a fool,” Mira said. She sat beside them, carefully keeping Teuta from crawling off the bed. “It’s seen us to this future though, so I won’t disparage the results.”

“Kind of you,” Duro said.

“I think so,” Mira said. Her whole face lit-up with her smile. “I never dreamed of this life, but it is a good one.”

“One we’ve earned,” Duro agreed. 

“One given to us,” Diona said. “One different decision, one different angle of a sword’s blow, or change in circumstance and none of us would be here. Perhaps we’d never lived to see this day, or perhaps we’d never been made slaves. There are things that cannot be changed, even if we wish it so, because it would remove this life before us.”

Duro shivered as he thought of dying on the ludus ground, nothing but a memory buried in Agron’s mind. He thought of Mira on that mountain top and how his quick yell to stay Spartacus’ hand had kept her from bleeding out. He thought of Diona, years younger, a scared and re-captured slave, falling to the death on arena sands due to a killing blow rather than a wounding one. He thought of Nasir in the forest, and Agron in the Romans’ camp; of Castus on the battle field unable to dodge a spear in time; of Sibyl freezing in the mountains; of Kore’s act of sacrifice; of Laeta used as nothing but Crassus’ pawn to keep Heracleo on his side. 

“We are here now,” Duro said. “We are home.”


	2. A Legacy Fulfilled

Teuta wore beads in her hair like her mother. She laughed like Castus, had the compassion of Kore, and led like Mira and Laeta. Agron taught her resilience even in the face of failure, while Nasir taught her how to ride, how to use her height to her advantage, and how it was never a weakness to be kind. Sibyl spoke to her of the gods, in all different lands, and taught her they were always present even if they constantly felt absent. 

She learned laughter from her father, and strategy, and loyalty. Her mother was living proof that lives did not always end how they begun, that it was capable to become more, and to survive certain death. She knew that her very existence was an extraordinary thing, and that she owed her family to the great courage, determination, and sacrifice of thousands. 

Teuta never forgot she was a Child of the Rebellion, and spoke of it with pride when she followed the trading and hunting parties to the north and the east. When rumors came that Romans had been seen on the western borders of the farthest river, she saw her elders prepare for a war. The years had shown themselves in their bodies, and while they could not fight on the lines, they could prepare the youth of their clan. When they saw bridges spanning the banks of the Rhine, and saw proof of an alliance between the Romans and the Ubians, there was a call to arms. 

They would not openly seek war with Rome or her allies, but they would not allow themselves to be taken unawares. Teuta, trained and raised by those who had fought against the Romans and for their entertainment, volunteered herself for the first patrol. 

Mira was the one who took the revered bow in their home from the wall. She pressed it into Teuta’s hands. “You are our legacy, and I will not see any other weapon in your hand,” she said.

Her mother gave her a short sword. “A Roman brat used this to take down Crixus. Naevia made him pay, though Kore made the final cuts. I would have it at your side, if our people are to march again.”

Her father gave her a knife with a cruel bone handle. “A great man called Oenomaus passed this into my hands. He never thought to see me do anything but fall to the ground. It must’ve been a shock the first time he saw me fight outside the arena. He gave this to me not long before he passed from this world.”

Teuta looked closer at the carved woods in the handle. “Does that spell _goat_?” she asked. 

Her father grinned. “He often claimed your Uncle and I smelled as such.”

Her uncles gave her a large shield with a painted red serpent on it. “It was to be your gift come your majority,” Nasir said.

“You carry on a proud tradition with such a symbol,” Agron said. “Spartacus himself fought under such an image.”

“I will make him proud,” Teuta swore.

Her uncles both frowned. “Teuta, you make him proud just by living free,” Agron said.

Sibyl gave her a small wooden owl, and promised to pray for her protection. Kore passed a vial to her. “So they cannot take you alive, if you choose to end it so,” she said. 

Laeta was the one who wove a faded leather strip decorated with small skulls into her hair. “May you have the keen sense of fight and survival of the woman who once wore this in her hair. If Belesa were here, she’d do this herself, but I offer it in her stead.” She pressed a kiss into Teuta’s hair. “Never forget, that in the right hands, _anything_ can become a weapon. Fight until the end.”

Castus met her by the small stream’s edge, near the ancient oak. “The others fear what is coming, and perhaps I should as well, but I’ve always trusted in the sea change.”

“The Romans are coming,” Teuta said. She had little doubt of the outcome, and knew war would always be a part of her life. She’d been born in the wake of it after all. 

“I do not believe they will make it as far as our borders, but yes, they will grab as much as this land as they can. It will not be an easy bout, though. They will have to earn every speck of dirt.” Castus draped a necklace made of leather and water-smoothed stones around her neck. “Let them know they should curse their very gods for daring to step foot over the Rhine.”

There were no tears when it came time for her to depart, and no farewells were allowed. There were trembling lips and chins, and strong embraces clutching her for moments at a time, passing strength and resolve into her shaking hands. 

Agron, as the Elder of their clan, spoke one final command before departure. 

“Remember what is under your feet.”


End file.
